


a stitch away from making it

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Greg House Needs a Hug, Hurt Greg House, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Stitches, Tritter Arc, Whumptober 2019, past gun violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 17:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: After his trial, House picks at the stitches from when he got shot.





	a stitch away from making it

**Author's Note:**

> for whumptober with the prompt 'stitches', and bad things happen bingo w/ the square 'reopening an old wound'
> 
> title from _the (after) life of the party_ by fall out boy
> 
> enjoy!

He's in a cell for a day and some hours, but it's enough to make him skittish. There's no stimulus, no puzzles, nothing except his bottle of Vicodin and his thoughts. Besides, the cell is painfully empty. There's not even a cot to get comfortable on, to catch a few hours of semi-comfortable sleep. But no, he can't even get that. It's like Tritter wanted him to suffer, even if he had lost. 

He swallows as he picks at his shirt, examining the cloth, feeling it on his hands. He keeps thinking about the last week or so, how everything has happened too fast. One day he was getting petty revenge on an ableist prick, and the next one said ableist prick was freezing his employee's accounts and hounding him. And the day after he was overdosing, desperate to escape this situation. It was a stupid idea, granted by how Wilson clung to him and begged him to never pull shit like that ever again. He was mad, but he was mostly terrified. 

A smug smile can't help but make its way to his lips. They  _ care _ about him. They really do. As much as Cuddy tries to hide it under it all just being boss and employee, as much as Wilson tries to act like he spends time with House out of his savior complex and the kindness of his heart, they genuinely care. 

If it wasn't for Cuddy, he would be in a much worse situation. But he can be thankful later, he can do something theatric and stupid as a thank-you later. Right now, all that matters is getting his mind busy— anxiety wracks at him at not having anything at all to do. There must be something he can do. He hums as he pulls his shirt up a little, the stitches from when he was shot still there. He's been putting off taking them out. 

Without thinking twice, he's pulling at them, grimacing in pain, his face twisting as he keeps going at it, relentless. The talk at the rehab center at PPTH about self-harm, about self-destruction rings through his head, but he doesn't care. He prefers pain over boredom. 

"Fuck," he breathes out. He's reopening the wound from when he got shot. That day is just an unpleasant memory after another, the hallucinations still too real in his head. And also because it's barely been a few months since he had a few weeks of bliss. Of being painless. 

He wants it back. He wishes it would've worked for longer. 

He wriggles on his spot on the floor, gritting his teeth as he keeps digging at the stitches. A fine line of blood trickles down the worked up knot, and he's dizzy. 

He lays back down on the cold, hard floor, twitching as he keeps picking at the knots weaved right into his skin. He can feel himself bleeding, but it doesn't matter. His leg doesn't hurt, and he doesn't need to take Vicodin, and it's good. It's all good. 

A part of him can't help but think he deserves the pain, the way blood starts to stain his shirt, the way his leg hums with pain. If it wasn't for Cuddy risking everything (perjuring herself!), he would be oh so much worse off. Perhaps he should've taken a few more pills that fateful Christmas night. 

But he takes what he can get— he picks at his stitches. As he passes out on the floor, it's all just good. 

* * *

_ "House!"  _

Wilson's yell wakes him up. He immediately straightens up, as much as his back complains, and looks up at him, growing used to the bright lights of the hallway. Wilson is staring, horrified, at him, and he takes a few seconds to remember what he did before passing out. He looks down and sees that it's long since stopped bleeding, but there's still a chunk of stitches undone, the wound newly raw once again, his shirt with a huge bloodstain on it. It's dry and it smells putrid. 

He smiles at him woozily. "Hey."

Wilson takes the key he was given and makes quick work of pulling the bars to the side, to then rush his way inside and put a hand on House’s shoulder, eyes wide. "What did you do?" he hisses out. 

"I…" He swallows thickly. "I got a bit bored. The stitches looked lame."

"House!" he exclaims once again, a tad quieter than before. "You can't just— do that!” 

“Yeah, I can. And I did.”

Wilson pulls away from him briefly, shaking his head. His brows furrow in the same way they always do, that concerned look he always wears so well. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I’m fine— hey!” he exclaims when Wilson picks him up, nearly a bridal carry. Wilson staggers a little by House’s weight, but that doesn’t stop him from carrying him all the way to his car, placing him on the seat next to his ever so gently. “You took this out of a bad romance movie,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t,” he replies as he settles down and starts the car. “I just care about your well-being. And you were fucking bleeding in your cell. Why did you do that?”

House would love to be honest. He’d love to say that he wanted to harm himself, that he wanted the high from the pain, that he wanted to keep his hands busy one way or another in that whole of nothing that was in that cell. Instead, all that comes out of him is a shrug.

“I dunno,” he says.

Wilson sees right through him. He gives him a small, understanding nod.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Just don’t pull that stunt again. I worry, House.”

He makes a little noise and presses his hand against his wound. “I’m well aware,” he says, getting more comfortable on the seat. “Tell me when we’re at the emergency room and when I’m getting patched up by a scantily clad Cameron, yeah?”

Wilson snorts. “Of course. I’ll be sure to wake you up then.”


End file.
